Ludentis
by Tearsheet
Summary: 4 years after the last Batman sighting, the mob is nearly stamped out and the city is recovering from the havoc. Few criminals are heard from anymore, but one woman is about to learn what is dead doesn't always stay that way. Rating will probably go up.


**A/N: Well, I've managed to capture a plot bunny and get it down. This is a story about an OC who ends up meeting the Joker, and...that's all I've got so far. I don't know how this is going to end, I don't know if there'll be a pairing, I don't even know when I'll have a second chapter. Rest assured, there _will _be one - just not in the next two days, or maybe even two weeks. I'm just writing this as it comes, and throwing the chapters up once I've finished them. I hope you'll enjoy and review, since reviews are my real motivation to post things in a timely fashion, not that I'll withhold chapters for more reviews. Anyway, enough rambling. I've done my very best to keep him in character. Concrit is welcome and appreciated, so without further ado, I present the first chapter.**

The rain was coming down in thick sheets, pounding against the pavement. Well-dressed business men hurried along, papers held over their heads in an attempt to keep their suits dry. Children were being chided for jumping into puddles, and every now and then a taxi would speed by and send a wall of water up and over the curb.

A lone pigeon fluttered down to the ground, and nabbed a hot dog with its beak. It waddled out into the street, content with what it had scrounged, and was promptly killed by a large eighteen wheeler.

A woman, witness to the episode, stifled a snort. What a waste of a hotdog.

Sitting on an overturned crate in the alley beside one of Gotham's classier restaurants, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, she had an excellent view of the comings and goings of the people. Necessary for the job, though the cold rain soaking into her bones was a little more uncomfortable than she'd ever let on.

She supposed it could have been worse. No goons were around to bother her; they were all inside, doing important shit for Maroni. Some employee she made, sitting on her ass smoking. In the beginning, she really had been important. He'd brought her in to all the meetings, gave her shift choices, penciled days off. But it had been four years since then, four years since Dent died, four years since there'd been even a whisper of the Batman.

It would have made things easier, having that psycho around to take attention away from the mobsters. Without that distraction, suddenly the low and mid-level guys were thrown into Blackgate, all the smaller families wiped out by the Dent Act. So as the mob grew smaller, so did the need for those who knew how to fight a war. Now, they spent Sundays in restaurants or bars, puffing on cigars and reminiscing about the good old days.

This certainly wasn't what she'd imagined for herself all those years ago. At 17, her father had died, leaving her in debt with Falcone. She'd spent the next three years tracking marks and beating some sense into others in debt. They'd liked her so much, they'd kept her on board.

She could fight well. Years of living in the Narrows did that to you. She could shoot a gun, use a knife, wiggle out of any tight spot, and as long as you paid, she was loyal. Now though, she was nearing 26, and they had less and less for her. Most of her work days were now spent acting as a "bodyguard." Her only job was to walk him to and from his fucking _car. _

Slowly, slowly, she was being ousted from the group. As the Dent Act gained ground, there were more and more people turning themselves over to the law. Freedom, in exchange for names or locations. The big guys needed to dispose of all dead weight. And one morning, she knew she'd wake up to find a guy in her apartment, to silence her forever.

The noose was tightening. She needed out, and soon.

Finishing her cigarette, she tossed the butt onto the ground before her and ground it in with her heel. The rain had lightened some, but now there was steam rising off the streets, that spooky fog like shit that made her toes curl.

Her phone buzzed once, twice, and she pulled it out and flipped it open, one eye on the streets.

**M coming through front. Don't fuck up.**

So polite, the texts from her co-workers. Whistling tunelessly, she rounded the corner of the building, just as Maroni exited.

"Good afternoon," she called out.

"Yeah, yeah. Where's the car?"

"Down the block further. Should I radio the driver?"

He shook his head mutely, and walked past, whacking his walking stick against her right calf.

"Let's go sweetheart."

She smiled through clenched teeth. God, if he wasn't an asshole…

The Benz, a deep midnight blue, sat waiting. She opened the door for Maroni, slammed it shut behind him, and smacked the top of the car once, twice, three times for good measure. The car peeled away into the fog, tires screeching.

She turned away silently and set off towards her apartment. A hot bath was in order.

By the time she was back in her apartment, night had fallen. Cold and clammy, she headed for the small bathroom in her apartment, shutting the door and turning the tap completely to the left. After the tub filled, she stripped quickly and, leaving her clothes in a puddle on the floor, she stepped into the water. It was nearly scalding, but she dropped herself in anyway.

The water level reached her collarbone, covering everything from her neck down in bubbles. Pulling one hand out of the water, she reached over to the soap dish and plucked a cigarette from its pack, along with her lighter, out of the shallow bowl.

She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl its way into her mouth, and exhaled heavily from her nose, sinking a bit farther down, relaxed by the nicotine and the warm water. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to drift off for a bit.

Her right arm rested on the side of the bathtub, the cigarette between her index and middle finger burning slowly. With each breath in, she relaxed further and further. Five, ten minutes passed before she opened her eyes again, and stubbed her cigarette out. Grabbing her razor and shaving cream from the shelf, she raised her leg straight into the air, lathering the cream in between her hands before spreading it up and down her calf and thigh. With great care, she drew the razor up from the bottom of her leg, up and over her knee, before dipping the blade back in the water to swish the hair off. Humming tunelessly, she continued shaving and rinsing, a soothing repetition.

She could see steam rising and catching on the ceiling by the time she'd finished. With a soft sigh, she stood and pulled the drain. As the water flowed out, she turned the shower on so she could rinse and wash her hair out.

Emerging from the bathroom some ten minutes later, she walked into her bedroom and had just pulled a giant t-shirt over her head, when it happened.

The window on the side of the room that looked out to the street shattered.

Dropping as fast as she could, hands over her head, she heard a bullet hit the wall behind her. She slid on her stomach over to her bed, ripping the pistol duct taped underneath the frame from its hiding place. Acutely aware of the fact she wasn't wearing underwear, she crawled over to her dresser and opened the bottom drawer, one hand holding the pistol pointed toward the window, and the other groping for panties.

Snatching the first pair she grabbed, she shimmied them up to her waist and then rolled forward, positioned in front of the window. Outside, she heard a scream and more gunshots. Tires squealed and more glass shattered. Taking a deep breath, she stuck her head out into the night air.

In the street were four dead bodies. One was a woman whose head was severed from her neck. There were three men who'd been shot or stabbed, she wasn't sure which from the distance, but she knew they were bleeding like stuck pigs. Tire tracks were visible, and she could smell the burnt rubber. It looked like a car-jacking gone wrong. Satisfied that she was no longer in danger – her window was collateral damage, not an attack on her– she drew the curtains closed and slid her pistol into the waistband of her underwear

But she still headed to the kitchen for her baseball bat and a knife. There was no way in _hell_ she would sleep tonight, not with the fucking glass blown out. It was practically an engraved invitation for a murderer or rapist. Grabbing a beer and popping the cap off with her teeth, she returned to her room. The curtains were fluttering in the wind. Annoyed, she dropped the bat and went towards the window, but she caught a whiff of gasoline and blood, and it stopped her in her tracks. Because it wasn't blowing in with the breeze. It was-

A hand twisted in her hair, and she was pulled flush against someone's body. She screamed and dropped the beer, and tried to turn, but ceased movement when she realized a knife was being held to her throat. Her attacker was breathing heavily through his nose.

"Shouldn't have dropped your, ah, _bat _dollface," he whispered in a voice that was both nasally and deep, a combination so strange it would have been funny if it didn't sound so damn terrifying. "But I _hate _bats, so I gu_ess _you made the ah, right _decision._"

And then it registered. She'd heard him before. _Everyone_ in Gotham knew that voice.

Her body must have stiffened, because he chuckled in her ear.

"Figured out who you're _dealing _with?" he asked, sounding gleeful. "Go_od_. I _love _when people, ah, recog_nize_ me!"

She snapped her head back, making contact with his nose. He may have shrieked, but to her it sounded more like laughter than anything else. She plucked the pistol out of its makeshift holster, cocking it as she spun to face him, and aimed right between his eyes.

"Drop the knife," she said quietly "or I'll shoot."

"You'd _shoot_ an _un_armed man?"

"Uh, yeah," she snarled.

His eyes lit up, and she found herself unable to look away. The white paint smeared all over his face was cracking at the forehead and around his nose. The black around his eyes was dripping down his face, and looked as though it were still wet. But his _mouth. _The scars were almost like…like _bubbles_, stretched wide across his face, the scarred smile sinister and yet, something about it had artistry, though whether that was an effect of the red paint or not, she didn't know.

With his mouth twisted into a ghoulish smile and his eyes burning like coals, she could see that he was horrifically ugly, but the ugliness wasn't in his face so much as it was his_ expression_ she could feel the energy he radiated, all power and intimidation. When they made eye contact again, she looked down at his tie quickly.

"Had your _fill, _then?" he growled deep in his throat.

Hadn't moved her eyes fast enough, apparently.

She opened her mouth to reply, but he lunged forward and knocked the gun out of her hands, pushing her back towards the window. She stepped in the shattered glass, and as she screamed a gloved hand flew out and grabbed her face. His thumb and index finger each dug into her cheeks, jerking her head up. He flicked his knife open and moved the hand pinching her cheeks to the back of her head, twisting his fingers in her hair more securely than the first time he'd tried it.

"Do you _wanna_ know how I got these _scars_?" he asked, pushing the blade into her mouth.

She didn't answer him, partly because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction, and partly because she didn't think the words would come out anyway.

"N_o_? Well, I'll tell you anyway," he muttered, eyes darting around her face. "My father was…a drinker. And a _fiend. _He used to ah, _beat _my Mother, you know, beat her _real _bad. And one night she comes home_ late_, from work. And he goes _crazy. _He reaches for a _knife a_nd he, uh, he _grabs me_ and sticks the blade in my mouth. And do you _know _what he does?"

She kneed him in the groin before he could finish. He fell to the floor, whooping in laughter. She jumped over him to reach the gun, but he grabbed her ankle, dragging her back towards him. She kicked out, flailing wildly, but he threw himself on top of her, shoving her face into the ground as he straddled her back.

"Stay…_still,"_ he muttered, twisting her right arm up. "You know, it's _rude _to interrupt a man's life sto_ry_."

"Fuck off," she hissed.

"Ooh, you've got spu_nk!"_

"What do you want from me?"

"Let's start with…your _name,"_ he growled into her ear.

She considered lying for a moment, but thought it…unwise, to say the least.

"Eva.'

He giggled and flicked his tongue out before repeating her name quietly, running his knife between her shoulder blades.

'Now, Eva, I'm getting a _little _tired of this. I have _business _to attend to, dollface, and I, uh, don't have _time _for another squabble with you. So I'm gonna give you a _choice, _being the gentle_man_ I am.'

She exhaled shakily, trying to disguise her fear.

"You can bring me to, ah, Maro_ni_ or I can kill you _right now." _

Was he fucking kidding? She wasn't a goddamn rat. She may have been looking for a way out earlier, but snitching on her boss wasn't it.

"I guess you'll have to kill me then," she answered resolutely.

"O_oh,_ I was hoping you would choose that one," he muttered, sending chills down her spine. 'Do you _know _what today, ah, i_s?"_ he asked, barely holding his laughter down.

"Thursday," she said, slightly confused.

"_Wrong!" _his amusement busted out with a blood curdling laugh. "It's _opposite _day!"

And before she could try to move, he whacked her with the butt of her pistol. The last thing she saw before her vision faded and everything went black was his bright red smile.


End file.
